Death Kissed

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Wrenn splayed her fingers over the one remaining bit of evidence left to her. The one remaining sheath of pixie vellum that, considering its overall worth, would have been the first thing she would have taken, if she’d been the one sent into a colleague’s home to retrieve documents. Because she was pretty damned sure Robin had sent in other Guard to desecrate her home.

  So she watched the threshold, waiting. Because her gut said the cutting off of official channels wasn’t the only plan the royals had for silencing her.

  The sun dropped behind the edge of the window. Dusk flowed into her sunroom all blue and mellow, and settled itself between the plants and the tanks. Her fish blinked. The windows popped a little as they cooled now that the sun no longer warmed their glass. But nothing untold unfolded. No spells manifested.

  Victor did not appear.

  Wrenn inhaled deeply as if she’d been holding her breath this entire time. The pixie vellum shimmered softly under her hand, and when she picked it up the sweet ballerina once again danced along its edge.

  That sprite, the one who’d been sucked dry and tossed into the Titan River, had been a dancer. She’d twirled and pirouetted for the world with her wings fluttering and her magic spiraling around her body like some brilliant cartoon fairy.

  She’d been innocence, that one.

  Wrenn checked the vellum again. No family, though she did live with a troupe in Applebottom. Wrenn could, at least, give them some closure.

  She slid the vellum into its protective sleeve and then into her satchel. And then, on a whim, placed Ed’s shotgun in the bag, too. Guns meant nothing in the fae realms. She still wanted it with her in case her place got another visitor while she was out.

  She set her Royal Guard star on the table and locked the door behind her.

  Lush was serving when she walked into the tavern. They hugged, and Lush thanked her for dealing with the kelpie even if the resulting damage had shut down their kitchen for a good week.

  Wrenn took her coffee and made her way down the main street toward her adopted realm’s Heartway station. She’d purchased six Robin-free tokens when she left Oberon’s Castle. Robin’s tokens were on her skin, so they would go with her no matter where she walked, but she still had to at least attempt to be careful.

  She dropped a token into her hand. The Heartway should leave her alone, and allow her free passage to Applebottom. She’d offer comfort and generalized handwaving toward justice, and then she’d excuse herself.

  There were other vampires out there. Other problems. She’d put her star back on her belt and she’d do her job.

  Wrenn dropped her token into the Heartway enchantments, stepped through the shimmer, and… moved.

  Dry, furnace-heated air hit her face. Bright midday sun beamed in from massive windows to her left. A multitude of tables, some with their chairs up and some not, surrounded her on all sides.

  Across the windows, painted so that it was readable from the outside, were the words “Raven’s Gaze is open for delivery and curbside pick-up.”

  This was not Applebottom. From the snow and ice outside, she’d landed somewhere in the mundane world.

  Alfheim.

  “That was easier than I thought it would be.”

  Wrenn whipped around. A woman she did not know sat alone at a table in the corner. She wore a pristine white t-shirt, a black leather jacket, and black jeans. Her boots looked suspiciously like Wrenn’s, as if she’d gotten them off a fae cobbler.

  She was not fae, nor was she an elf. Her dark eyes, her lovely straight black hair, and her strong features suggested Native American, but what nation Wrenn didn’t know.

  She was definitely a magical.

  The woman stood and extended her hand. “You are Wrenn Goodfellow, I assume?”

  Wrenn gingerly shook the woman’s offered hand. “I am. And you are?”

  The woman grinned. “Raven,” she said.

  Wrenn bristled. Raven? The Raven? One of the many aspects of Raven? What the hell was going on in Alfheim? “Are you—”

  The woman held up her finger. “You have more important business.” She pointed out the door as a white truck pulled into the otherwise empty parking lot.

  Wrenn walked over to the door and peered outside. “Alfheim Wildcat Sanctuary” blazed across the side of the truck and magic blazed off its driver.

  “You’re a bit of a peace offering,” Raven said. She gently pushed Wrenn toward the door. “Go on. Benta the Nameless has many tales to tell.”

  The magical named Raven disappeared with a fluttering flourish.

  Wrenn sighed. How many times in her two hundred years had she been sidetracked by some magical or another? The Courts especially were always in everyone’s business. Seemed Alfheim had the same problem with busybodies.

  She pushed open the door and stepped out into the bright sun.

  The chill wasn’t so bad. The snow snapped and crunched as it melted and the icicles on the tavern’s roof dripped in a melodic rhythm.

  Two big ravens sat in the big oak tree next to the tavern’s walk. They both shimmered in the sun, and when the larger of the two preened its wings, aura sheets of magic filled the tree.

  Wrenn waved and both ravens cawed and bobbed their heads in acknowledgement.

  Benta stepped out of the truck the moment Wrenn exited the tavern. She closed the driver’s door and walked toward Wrenn.

  She wore a different jacket than the one she’d had on in the Paul Bunyan Reserve, this one less puffy and a bright, friendly yellow. The hat looked different, too, but still big and wide-brimmed.

  She really was extraordinarily beautiful, more beautiful than the Queen with her gray elven eyes, and she moved like the cat in the picture on the side of her truck.

  Benta walked up. “I got a call that I was supposed to come pick you up at Raven’s Gaze.” She pointed at the tavern. “This is Bjorn’s place.” Her lips scrunched up for a second. “Or was. There’s some disagreement right now.”

  Wrenn pointed over her shoulder. “I met Raven inside,” she said.

  Benta’s lips rounded. “She appeared to you?” She looked impressed. “Raven’s been picky about who she’ll talk to. Mostly just our Queen and—” She inhaled. “She brought you back here on her own, didn’t she? Without asking?”

  Wrenn looked back at the restaurant. What was she supposed to say? She’d just been rerouted by the World Raven because she was some sort of “peace offering.” There were things happening here she did not understand. “Yes,” she said.

  “Sorry about that.” Benta shook her head. “Anyway, I need to ask you a few questions. Okay?”

  Wrenn nodded. “Okay.”

  “Victor Frankenstein,” she said.

  “That’s not a question,” Wrenn said.

  Benta chuckled. “Oh, Victor is a huge question, is he not?”

  “Was a question,” Wrenn said. “He’s dead.”

  Benta nodded. “He died in Edinburgh about two hundred years ago.”

  “Yes,” Wrenn said. “He… lost his head.”

  Benta chuckled. “How many of your kind are there?”

  Wrenn blinked. Benta had to ask that question, didn’t she? The one Wrenn didn’t know the answer to, not because she didn’t know how many of her kind there were, but whether or not she’d been built. “Victor resuscitated me,” she said. Whispered, really.

  Benta’s eyebrows knitted. “You’re not a witch,” she said. “If anything, you’re another jotunn.”

  “I can cast a limited number of spells.” She held out her hand to show Benta the spell she used to relocate muscle tension.

  Benta sighed. “The magicks you carry are strong and intricate, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from Robin Goodfellow. May I?” She reached and drew her finger along the tattoos around Wrenn’s wrist. “It’ll take some time, but I think we can untangle all of this.”

  “I carry gifted magic,” Wrenn said. “I’m Royal Guard. We all do. But the protection spells are my own.�
��

  Benta nodded again. “Oh, honey, you are so much more than Royal Guard.”

  Wrenn pulled back her hand. “What do you mean?”

  Benta nodded toward her truck. “I think it’s time you met the other of your kind.”

  Did she mean Frank? “He…” She inhaled. Ed would not have lied to her. Nor would the elves. Elves don’t lie. “The logs and diaries I have said he called himself Adam.”

  Benta laughed. “Victor named him Adam as part of his woe-is-me God complex. When we found him, he didn’t have a name.”

  Neither had Wrenn, when Robin found her. All that time with Victor and he’d only ever referred to her as his pigeon, or his darling, or his love.

  Benta ushered her toward the truck. “Come,” she said.

  Wrenn walked toward the truck, her satchel over her arm and her jitters resurfacing.

  She hadn’t wanted this. She had work in Applebottom. And she needed time to process what she’d learned from Ed and the elves before coming back to Alfheim.

  But it seemed a magical named Raven wanted her here now—and wanted her to meet Victor’s other victim.

  Because they were both victims, no matter what Victor told her—or the papers Robin had found said. Deep in her bones, she’d always suspected as much. But thinking he was a monster had always been easier. Comforting, too, in its own way. The men of Frankenstein were evil, even if one of them had been forced into rage by Victor.

  Just like her.

  She’d be lying if she said this moment didn’t scare her to her core. She wanted to see with her own eyes what to believe.

  Benta smiled. “We elves call him Frank.”

  Chapter 30

  The hospital, like every other hospital on Earth, wouldn’t let the kids in to see their new baby sister. They ran all the normal precautions, too—scanned Ed’s temperature on the way in, stuck a rapid-test swab in his nose, scanned him again when he woke up this morning, as directed by the Minnesota Department of Health.

  The elves could only do so much when it came to outbreaks.

  Grace Maria Martinez made her entrance into the world just as the first rays of morning sunshine crested the horizon—a healthy and hardy babe, one fully blessed by the magicals who considered her their own. The nurses cleaned up mother and child, checked temperatures again, and tucked Ed into the pullout couch in the corner of the room.

  He slept for a solid five hours no matter the hospital noise, or the nurses exiting and entering, or little Grace’s bassinette moving in and out of the room.

  He woke to a darkened room, shades drawn and door closed.

  Isabella quietly nursed Grace. “Good afternoon,” she said.

  Ed stretched his back. Sleeping on a hospital pullout was pretty much like sleeping in the back of a car, complete with leg cramps and lots of beeping.

  He stood to stretch his shoulders.

  Dagrun Tyrsdottir sat in the chair on the other side of the bed. He hadn’t sensed her there, or seen her, or heard her come in. She was mostly out of glamour with her tall elven ears visible and her huge magic ponytail hanging over her shoulder. She was in sweats, though, and wore a pair of grippy hospital socks.

  Her arm was still in a cast. Not the same one as the last time he’d seen her, but a larger, longer cast covering her elbow.

  She sat ramrod straight, too, like she had a wrap around her ribs.

  “Mayor,” he said, though when they were out of glamour, etiquette dictated he should refer to her as Queen.

  She grinned and nodded toward Isabella and Grace. “She’s perfect.”

  “She is,” Isabella said.

  “What is your opinion of this Wrenn Goodfellow?” Dagrun asked.

  Right to business, that was the Elf Queen of Alfheim.

  Ed kissed Isabella’s temple. “She latching on okay?” he quietly asked.

  Isabella nodded. “Eating like a trooper.”

  Ed turned his gaze to the elf in the room. “I don’t want any more kelpies showing up in Alfheim,” he said.

  Dagrun gave a small agreeing nod. “None of us do.”

  “Good,” Ed said.

  “Any fae of any kind,” Dagrun said.

  Ed responded with a chuckle. “Your husband made a deal with Queen Titania to get the kids and me out of Texas faster than you all showing up in a plane.”

  Isabella’s eyes widened. “No deals with the fae,” she said.

  Ed knew exactly what his wife was thinking—he and the kids might be incidental in any deal, but incidental still meant connected. And connected to magicals is what had gotten them here in the first place.

  “True,” Dagrun said. “Titania isn’t the fae we need to be worried about.”

  Ed pinched his forehead. “Is Remy okay?” He’d forgotten to ask about Gerard and Remy when Arne dropped him off.

  “Being in wolfman form gives a fair amount of protection,” Dagrun said.

  “Yes,” Ed said. “I know. But that explosion was magical, caused by a kelpie, and originating from a psychologically messed-up elven sword.” Only in Alfheim would Ed use the words psychologically messed-up to describe what should have been an inanimate object. “I mean…” He pointed at her broken arm.

  Dagrun looked down at the cast. “Remy’s healing faster than I am and should be back to his normal self in a few days.”

  So he’d been correct about the magical severity of the explosion.

  “We’ll need any information you have on this fae-generated system Wrenn Goodfellow referred to as the Heartway,” Dagrun said.

  Isabella switched Grace over to her other breast. “That kelpie took my children into whatever this Heartway is.”

  Dagrun nodded. “It uses ley lines. We had no idea Oberon had upgraded it to the point where it had become the equivalent of a subway system.”

  “They had no idea Frank lived here,” Ed said.

  Dagrun shook her head. “This Wrenn person had no idea. I can guarantee you Oberon knew. And that evil…” She looked up at the ceiling. “If the fae were to have an aspect of Loki, his name would be Robin Goodfellow.”

  “And that’s why you’re concerned?” Ed asked. They had so many things to be concerned about right now.

  “Among other things, yes,” she said.

  Isabella settled Grace in. “We are considering leaving Alfheim,” she said. “For the safety of our children.”

  Dagrun inhaled slowly as if it hurt, then exhaled just as slowly. “We figured as much.”

  Isabella looked directly at Dagrun. “Tell us why we should stay.”

  Dagrun leaned back in the chair. “Because Ragnarok is upon us, my friend. And we need your help.”

  Isabella looked up at Ed with a look he’d seen again and again, not just in his wife’s eyes, but in his own. And his parents’. And her parents’, too, before they were killed. He knew the look of exhausted resignation that came with moral clarity. The look of someone who would fight to protect everyone’s kids, not just their own.

  He nodded. “We need to talk about Sophia,” he said.

  “Yes, we do,” Dagrun responded.

  “And Wrenn.”

  “Yes.”

  Ed kissed Isabella’s temple again and walked around the bed. “I can’t do my job if I’m not clued in,” he said.

  “That stops today.” Dagrun pointed at a smaller chair in the corner. “Sit down. Please.”

  Ed grabbed the chair.

  “Let’s talk.”

  Chapter 31

  He went by the name Frank Victorsson. Two hundred years ago, he’d walked out of the Arctic, through Manitoba, and into the part of the world now called Alfheim, Minnesota.

  The elves took him in. They gave him a home. Taught him how to channel his Victor-caused anger into becoming a good citizen. He now lived on a beautiful lake outside of town in an equally beautiful cabin-turned-house with none other than the local King and Queen’s daughter.

  He and Benta used to date.

  Not just for a coup
le of weeks, either. They were on and off for decades. Benta clearly had a lot of ambivalence about the whole thing.

  Not that it was any of Wrenn’s business.

  She sat in the passenger seat of Benta’s truck, her satchel on the floor between her feet, leafing through the monthly cat magazine produced by the Alfheim Wildcat Sanctuary. Seemed Minnesota had a couple of sanctuaries specializing in the care of large and small felines of all species. Benta’s focus was on rehabbing smaller wildcats like lynxes, bobcats, and a few cougars.

  The cats were just as beautiful as the elf.

  Wrenn dropped the magazine into the back of the truck. Benta had gone into the house a good twenty minutes ago. Wrenn waited outside while Benta and the other elves in the house argued.

  They were just inside the door and probably watching her through the frosted glass. There was movement back there, and a lot of flaring magic.

  She was beginning to wonder if Frank Victorsson was even home.

  Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should just walk back to Raven’s Gaze and ask that aspect of Raven to send her to Applebottom. She’d come back when she felt ready to process all this.

  Benta and another elf came out. She was tall like Benta, beautiful too, and in what Wrenn would call a “Mom” glamour.

  Benta tapped the window. “Frank’s back.”

  The other elf woman stayed away from the truck. “So you’re Frank’s sister,” she said.

  Sister. Did all the elves believe that? Victor was sure she and this Frank person would birth a master race.

  Or maybe a new kind of mecha-magical.

  Wrenn nodded yes.

  “Sophia and Gabe vouched for you,” the other elf said. “We’ll be watching anyway.”

  She wasn’t happy, this other elf who was likely Maura, the daughter of the King and Queen. So unhappy about the situation that she refused to introduce herself.

  “Okay,” Wrenn said.

  The one who was probably Maura crossed her arms. “If I catch even a whiff of fae magic I don’t like, I’ll take off your head. Understand? No warning. No questions. Lennart says you can be trusted but my gut says anyone who calls themselves Goodfellow should have their asses kicked all the way back to the fae realms.”